


Kapital

by Mem_Aleph



Category: Das Kapital - Fandom, The Communist Manifesto - Fandom, communism - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Das Kapital, F/M, M/M, Multi, Parody, cabbage tea, hot proletarian sex, i really hope no one ever reads this, more than comrades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mem_Aleph/pseuds/Mem_Aleph
Summary: Marx and Engels get it on. I don't know what else to really say.NEW: Now featuring Rosa Luxemburg!





	1. Chapter 1

"H-hello, Engels-senpai," Marx stammered as he opened the door to their shared office. The older, taller man spun his desk chair to face him, spreading his legs unconsciously to display a sizeable bulge. Marx blushed as Engels' gaze landed on him, but it was hidden by his extremely bushy beard-moustache-hair combination. Nevertheless he averted his eyes from his senpai's steely ones. _OwO_ , Marx thought, _what's this?_ Mustering his courage, he stepped into the office and pushed the door shut behind him, pressing his lithe frame against it.

"Come to work on the latest chapter of _Kapital_ , Marx-chan?" Engels asked in his gravelly, masculine voice. "And I've told you, we're more than mere coworkers — we're comrades! Please, call me Friedrich." A smile spread over the tall communist's face, and Marx's eyes were drawn immediately to his full lips.

"Engels-senpai — no, Friedrich — I-I know I shouldn't say it, but... I don't only want to be more than coworkers! I want to be more than comrades, too!" With this, Marx, whose fingers had been nervously but steadily working at the knot of his tie, flung it to one side and tore open his sensible shirt, sending buttons flying in all directions except at Engels.

"But Marx-chan!" Engels exclaimed. "It is forbidden! Right here in chapter 23 it says, _Let all comrades be alike to you and to each other in body and in mind. Treat not any comrade unlike any other_. And, Marx-chan... I don't want to do this with any other comrade, so how can I do it with you?" Still, despite his words, Engels' eyes raked over Marx's lean yet sculpted yet tenderly curved body, tracing the smooth line of his throat, across his defined collarbones to his lightly muscled chest (AN: if u don't think marx works out fuk of), lingering on his dusky nipples before sliding down his flat yet gently curved stomach to rest on the sharp edges of his hipbones where they protruded above the waistband of his low-cut slacks, revealing a single hammer-and-sickle tattoo. At the sight of the light dusting of dark hair disappearing suggestively into Marx's pants, Engels was transfixed.

Unaware of his comrade's fascination with his supple physique, Marx felt tears welling up in his eyes. "You... you don't want to do it with me?" he wailed, bringing his delicate hands to his face to hide that of his shame which was not already concealed by his excessive facial hair. "I thought I was special to you! I've made a terrible mistake." He hugged the tattered remnants of his sensible shirt tight around his chest — tight enough that the outline of his toned pectoral muscles was still easily visible — and turned to leave the office.

"No!" came Engels' voice, and at that moment Marx became suddenly aware of a pair improbably large hands impacting the heavy door on either side of his slender shoulders. He turned back around and immediately pressed back against the door as Engels loomed over him. His comrade's face grew large in his vision and then — wonder of wonders! — he felt soft, comradely lips against his own. Marx's eyes went wide in surprise but almost immediately fell closed, surrendering to the intensity of Engels' kiss. At the probing touch of the other man's tongue, Marx parted his lips breathlessly and met Engels' tongue with his own. After a brief, yet fierce, battle for dominance, Marx surrendered yet again and moaned as his comrade plundered his moist cavern, one hand tangling in Marx's whole hair situation while the other trapped both the smaller comrade's hands above his head.

Just as Marx could feel himself growing lightheaded from lack of air, Engels rapidly drew back. Panting harshly as he spat out beard hairs, he met Marx's gaze steadily. "Marx-chan," he said gravely, "even though it is forbidden, I cannot resist your delicate and innocently seductive wiles. Will you... do it with me?"

Marx's eyes grew wide with happiness, although his beard was in the way of being able to tell whether or not he was smiling. "Engels-senpai," he uttered breathily, "doing it with you is all I've ever wanted! I would have freed the proletariat a thousand times over just for one look! This is beyond my wildest dreams!" At the mere thought, his body grew slack and melty. Engels' strong dual grips on his wrist and hair felt like they were the only things holding him up, until in one movement Engels released both hands and swooped them downwards instead to cup Marx's tight bubble butt. He hoisted his shorter comrade against the door as Marx wrapped his legs around his waist and flung both arms around Engels' broad shoulders, leaning forward to kiss the other man again.

With each stroke of Marx's tongue against his own, Engels' grip on his comrade's ass grew tighter, his libido even more uncontrollable. As he ravaged his comrade's mouth Engels began to nip gently at Marx's tongue and lips, swallowing his keening moans. Pausing for air, he drew back, only to be distracted by the slender column of Marx's throat. Engels, overwhelmed by a desire to mark Marx as his own, began to kiss and lick at his comrade's thickly bearded jawline. Marx groaned in a high voice, arching his back in a way that simultaneously thrust his rock-hard hammer against Engels' similarly-erect sickle and bared even more of his bearded throat to his comrade's frantic ministrations. "Oh, Engels, don't stop," he practically screamed. "You're making me have a revolution in my pants!"

Marx's lustful cries only doubled Engels' desire for his delicate flower of a comrade. He set to it anew, this time no longer holding back. Engels nibbled his way down Marx's jaw, getting mouthfuls mostly of beard, before reaching a rare smooth patch of neck and biting down in earnest. Latching onto the lily-white skin he began to lick and suck, Marx's increasingly high-pitched moans only encouraging him. When he finally drew back, there on his comrade's neck was a perfect red-star-shaped hickey, proudly on display behind Marx's voluptuous beard for all the world to see. As he gazed in satisfaction upon his artistry, his comrade shuddered and groaned incoherently against him.

"E-Engels-senpai," Marx finally managed with a not-inconsiderable effort, "I need you in me, now, just like the red menace will thrust hard and deep into the American government!"

"Patience, Marx-chan," Engels growled in a voice that spoke of barely-contained comradely urges. Readjusting his grip on Marx's ass, he let go with one hand to sweep one of their equally-distributed desks clear. Pages of the first manuscript of _Kapital_ fluttered into the air around them, falling like the snow that blanketed the oppressed workers of much of Northern Europe. He laid Marx down gently on the newly-bare surface, and took a moment to gaze down on his writhing comrade. Gazing over, Engels tore what was left of Marx's shirt off his strong but delicate body and caringly unlaced his practical working-class boots before flinging them across the room. That done, he yanked down the smaller communist's slacks (AN: commies cant afford underwear until WE HAVE DEFEATED CAPITALISM BY 2020) in a single smooth motion, leaving Marx's proletarian organ quivering at a perfect right angle to his body.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," Engels rumbled in a masculine voice as he swept his eyes over Marx's proletarianly nude body. Doing away with the bourgeois ideal of modestly, he swiftly stripped himself bare, and for a long second the two communists regarded each other with the fires of naked lust in their eyes.

"Engels-senpai," Marx ventured flirtatiously, "since we can't afford heat under communism I think I need some... warming up." His voice was sultry and smooth, and his beard fluttered in time with his eyelashes. Unable to resist the luscious sight before him, Engels knelt equally at his comrade's feet and engulfed his entire cock in his communist mouth in one single proletarian motion. Marx's hips immediately snapped up, driving him deeper into the lone source of heat that was his beloved comrade, but Engels had other plans.

Pinning Marx's slim hips to the surface of the desk with one yaoi hand, he drew his head back up the other communist's length until only his head was still between his plush lips, and then released it with a loud 'pop' clearly audible even above Marx's desperate moans. Quietly, breath ghosting over the other man's spit-slick member, he laughed. "You want me that badly, hm?" he asked.

Frantically, Marx nodded. "I do, I-I need, please, senpai, Friedrich, in me, please—"

His incoherent begging was cut off when Engels went all the way down on him once more, this time teasing his communist balls with his free hand. But all too soon, Engels withdrew again, licking and sucking and downright fondling Marx's cock with his skillful tongue on his way back up. Although Marx whimpered and pleaded, Engels had other plans. Still keeping Marx's hips pinned, he leaned up over his comrade and thrust two fingers between his wantonly parted lips. "Suck," he commanded, and the steel in his voice shocked Marx into obeying right away.

Soon his fingers were wet enough for his purposes, and he pulled them slowly from Marx's mouth, leaving a glistening string of saliva trailing from between the other's slack lips. Moving back down between Marx's legs, Engels paused. "Do you want me in you?" he rumbled in his deepest, most proletarian voice.

"Yes, oh yes, a thousand times yes," cried Marx, trailing off into a shriek of joy as his comrade thrust a single digit into his fluttering hole. His back arched off the desk as his whole body went rigid, the sudden sensation of fullness, unlike anything he had felt before, enough to push him over the edge. Marx's communist ejaculate sprayed with proletarian abandon over his stomach and chest, leaving his body looking like a piece of bourgeoisly abstract art. Engels grinned. As Marx's hole convulsed with the force of his climax, he crooked his finger just so to brush against an extremely communist bundle of nerves. Marx screamed with pleasure as his oversensitive nerves lit up once more, instantly regaining the full strength of his erection.

"More," he panted, barely able to move but still aching for his comrade. Hastily, Engels slipped in his other spit-wet finger, quickly scissoring Marx open to fit the girth of his massive dick. Efficiently, he retracted both fingers, leaving his comrade keening and empty, and flipped the other man onto his stomach, legs dangling off the desk. From a nearby and convenient location Engels grabbed a small tube of lubricant, swiftly lubing up his member as well as continuing to prepare Marx's body. When neither man could bear to wait a single instant longer, he thrust in with one smooth motion, and came instantly at the same time as Marx down to the nanosecond. For a moment, they both lay there panting and gasping for breath, Marx basking in the comforting weight of Engels above him and Engels admiring how small and delicate Marx felt beneath him. They both drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, when the men awoke — communistly neither stiff nor sore, except Marx's hickey was now another tattoo — cradled in Marx's arms was a final, perfected manuscript of _Kapital_. The force of their love had completed the communist revolution over the world's capitalist overclass. The workers were free. And now, Mar and Engels could finally be happy together — as comrades, but also as something more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosa Luxemburg sleeps with this guy Leo Jogiches who I honestly only know exists off Wikipedia.

Rosa collapsed face-first onto her cozy yet communist bed, stretching luxuriously but at the same time proletarianly as the stress of a long, working-class day's socialist newspapering bled from her elegant limbs. She fully intended to heave herself back to her feet and begin planning for next week's communist revolution, but the bed was so comfortable, and the bourgeoisie would still be around to overthrow in a few hours...

Some time later, Rosa woke with a start. She had neglected to draw the curtains before succumbing to slumber, and through the bare windows she could see only darkness, punctuated by the occasional glow of scattered gas-lamps. She parted her plush, Cupid's-bow lips in a lazy yawn, a delicate flush rising on her cheekbones as she considered all the important communist work through which she had slept. Glancing around the room, her gaze fell on her fellow newspaper worker, Leo Jogiches. His back seemed broader than usual in the half-light as he bent over the sturdily communist desk in the corner of the apartment's single room (AN: once capitalism falls we can ALL HAVE APARTMENTS). She could see the sharp lines of his profile, lit by the soft light of the desk lamp, as he furrowed his brow in a frown at the newspaper before him.

"Leo?" Rosa asked, voice still husky from sleep. "What are you doing here?" At the sound of her voice he started, having been so focused on his newspapering that he hadn't noticed her waking up.

"Oh, I just had this draft I wanted you to take a look at, and then the door was unlocked so I thought I'd keep an eye on you until you woke," he explained socialistly. "I hope it's not too intrusive. Want some Victory Tea?" As he gestured toward a steaming mug on the desk, Rosa caught the alluring scent of boiled cabbage on the air.

"That sounds perfect," she replied, rising in a fluid motion to her communistly-booted feet and stomping gracefully to the desk. When she reached Leo, she leaned down over his shoulder to examine the story he had been poring over, her left arm draping itself around his deliciously warm neck and shoulder while she raised her mug of Victory Tea in her right hand. When she brought it to her lips, the motion caused the strings of her communist lace-up shirt to come fully loose — she had untied them before she slept — and the garment fell open, exposing her perfectly formed breasts to the cold Russian air (AN: all communists live in russia read a book).

Being a proud, card-carrying member of the proletariat, however, Rosa was no stranger to the cold — and being a communist, she had no care for bourgeois ideals like modesty. Her solution, then, was to press herself closer to her conveniently-warm comrade Leo, until he could quite distinctly feel her nipples, erect from the chill air and not because she was communistly aroused by proximity to such a virile proletarian man, poking into his back. "Rosa," he said, Russian accent thickening his deep voice, "are you needing to warm up?"

"Oh, yes, comrade, just as soon as I finish reading this article," she replied nonchalantly. "I do so hope our Swedish comrades fare well in their struggle to destroy the bourgeoisie!" She took a sip of her Victory Tea. It tasted delightfully of cabbage, the same aroma that filled the air in the apartment. As soon as she put it back down, though, she felt her comrade moving under her. "Leo, what are you doing?" she asked as he stood, her arm sliding off his broad shoulders until only her hand reached up to rest on his right shoulder.

"It is simple," he replied, a mischievous look dancing over his rugged features. "I am warming you up." With that, he curved his right arm around Rosa's ribcage and swept his left under her knees, lifting her off her feet and cradling her delicate yet lusciously curvy body to his strong, masculine, proletarian, working-class chest. She gave a small shriek of surprise, which turned into a high, bell-like laugh. Rosa wriggled in Leo's arms, pressing her body closer to his in a proletarian attempt to get warm while ignoring bourgeois modesty. Her right hand came to rest on his solid chest, caressing the muscular planes of his working-class muscles through his rough-spun shirt.

In two long strides, Leo crossed the distance between the desk and Rosa's bed. "Will you communistly share your bed with me, as private property is abolished under socialism?" he rumbled at her in the deep voice of the oppressed masses.

"Oh Leo, of course!" she replied. "Who do you think I am, Donald Trump?" she joked in an ahead-of-her-time way. Having been given the all-clear, Leo gently set his newspaper partner down on the mattress, taking the opportunity to strip from her the currently-practically-useless shirt still clinging to her perfectly shaped arms, as well as divesting them both of their communist boots. Rosa shot him a questioning look.

"It is so we can be sharing body heat," Leo told her Russianly. In accordance with this plan, he flexed his mightily proletarian pectorals and his shirt burst from his chest in a manner not unlike the bursting of fireworks over the Red Square on the night the last member of the bourgeoisie would be executed. His task completed, Leo slid into the bed behind Rosa and draped his right arm over her bare, slender waist. His breath hot on the back of her neck, he whispered to her, "The best way to heat up is to be doing some... physical activity."

At the sound of Leo's husky Russian voice, Rosa moaned aloud. "Oh, comrade," she murmured with the sweet sound of the people's revolution. "I want you to redistribute your cock inside me!" She twisted in Leo's grip, just enough to tangle her right hand in his communist hair and bring their dialectically-conscious lips together. He reclined back and she pressed her advantage just as the Red Army had pressed their advantage during the October Revolution, following his retreat until she was straddling him, her hands firmly holding both his forearms down to either side of him.

She could feel him smiling against her as his lips parted, and she, too, smiled as her tongue darted out to taste him. He obligingly opened his mouth, and the two of them began to kiss in earnest, their tongues tangling passionately around each other with increasing desperation. Leo could taste the cabbage in Rosa's mouth, and it was delicious. He wanted to taste more of it. Overcome by his cabbage-related desire, he broke free of Rosa's grip on his arms, bracing himself on one arm to rise up beneath her as his other hand found the back of her neck. Inadvertently, this motion carried through to his hips, which rolled against his comrade's like the waves on the shore of Kronstadt (AN: if you think the red army ever did anything wrong you have false consciousness). She groaned into his mouth, matching him move for move. Leo could feel himself hardening under her, and it appeared that so could she, because she redoubled her efforts, timing her movements to the rhythm of the glorious anthem of the USSR.

Immediately, both of them broke their locked lips apart and began to sing patriotically, still grinding on each other, for the duration of the anthem. When it was over, they saluted simultaneously, turning in the direction of Marx's hometown and sharing a grave moment of silence for their fallen comrade — perhaps the most comradely of them all. But thinking of Marx only got both of them worked up again (AN: leo iz a hot bi goff), and they could wait no longer. "Take me!" Rosa cried, tearing off her proletarian pants in a single motion, the equally-distributed fabric being far from the highest in quality.   
Spurred on by the sight of Rosa's hammer-and-sickle knickers, which she could afford as a Party member, Leo tore his pants off likewise, although he was not so lucky as her in the underwear-having department. This, of course, meant that his working-class dick was freed from the chains of its fabric-based oppression, and so sprang free in a revolutionary way.

Rosa eyed Leo's member appreciatively, unconsciously licking her lips at the sight of it. "Comrade, would you not say we both have skillful tongues?" she asked in a sultry voice.

"I would," he replied, his Russian accent making his words almost incomprehensible as a slow smile spread over his manly features.

"Then why not put them to some better use?" Rosa suggested, rising up on her knees and hooking her thumbs suggestively into the band of her hammer-and-sickle knickers. Swaying her full hips slowly, she pulled down on first one side, then the other, the scrap of fabric inching its way over the firm globes of her ass with every movement. Leo could only watch, enraptured by her liberated actions. After what seemed like an eternity, Rosa had worked her hammer-and-sickle knickers off her hips, and so ripped them off with her strong working-class arms and threw the shreds aside. She leaned back down over Leo, placing both her small, delicate hands on his broad shoulders, and kissed him once, briefly but passionately.

After breaking the kiss, Rosa gracefully maneuvered in a half-turn until her knees rested on either side of Leo's shoulders and she came face-to-face with his erect hammer. Arching her back seductively, she lapped teasingly at its very tip, savouring the salty taste of precum on her tongue. At the same moment, Leo licked a long stripe up her neatly-trimmed pussy, the flat of his tongue pressing against her opening. She moaned and took to her unalienated labour with a passion, wrapping her sensual lips around the head of her comrade's cock with a pleased groan. Angling herself better she began to bob down, her long, elegant throat working as she swallowed repeatedly.

Leo gave a muffled hum of appreciation and feministly flicked the tip of his tongue over her clit rapidly, his fingers digging into her skin where they steadied her hips. With another slow drag he worked his way back to Rosa's dripping chalice, lingering to appreciate the taste of her honey. He teased at the rim of her hole, enjoying the whimpers he elicited with every twitch of his tongue, before returning to her clit and biting down gently. Rosa keened around him as she came, revolutionarily before him, although he also came immediately after. She feministly swallowed, because in communist Russia soup is soup.

Turning back around, Rosa stretched the length of her supple body alongside Leo's, moulding her curves to his body while she rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm certainly warmer now," she said slightly breathlessly, "but the night is still cold." Contrary to her words, a light sheen of sweat was visible on her enlightened nude body, and her face was flushed, but Leo didn't seem to notice.

"I am being happy to keep warming you up," he told her, lifting himself on one arm to regard her. She draped a hand over his neck, pulling him down into a lazy kiss which he gladly returned. As the kiss grew more heated, Leo rolled half-over Rosa, now fully above her. She flung her other arm over his shoulder, one hand reaching up to grip his hair and the other lightly scratching nail-marks into his back. At the slight burn Leo shuddered, breathing harshly in-between kisses. He slid his left hand down Rosa's side, communistly reciprocating by scraping his short worker's nails along her skin.

She gripped his hair tighter and pulled herself up to him, her bare breasts brushing against the skin of his chest. Moving his hand back up her side, he brushed his thumb gently over her nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. Withdrawing from the kiss, he licked and kissed his way down her neck to her collarbones and then to one shapely breast, gently grasping her nipple between his teeth as his rough fingers teased the other one. Rosa threw her head back, incoherent scraps of _The Communist Manifesto_ escaping her lips as she writhed in pleasure.

Pleased with himself, Leo took a moment to rise back over his comrade and admire the state into which he had sent her. While he was doing this, one hand crept lower, following the trail of soft, neatly-groomed hair to Rosa's entrance. He slipped a finger inside her, his grin widening as she exhaled sharply and unconsciously tilted her hips upward. Adding another finger, he began to move them, driving deeper into his fellow revolutionary with every thrust. She moaned wantonly, her red lips parting obscenely even as her eyes fluttered shut. "Rosa, it is too much," Leo said, fingers still moving slowly. "Do you want me to be being inside of you?"

"Absolutely I do," she gasped. Leo rolled on a Victory Condom quickly and lined himself up to enter her, pausing a moment to take in the sight of his delicate and tender comrade spread before him for the taking, legs wide and chest heaving. This, indeed, was the epitome of the revolutionary spirit. On this thought, Leo thrust slowly and steadily forward, engulfing himself in Rosa's tight heat. She brought her hips up to meet him, folding her long legs around his waist with the extreme flexibility which was the capacity solely of revolutionary women. He thrust deep and slow, once, twice, and she shuddered in orgasm beneath him, coming apart in his arms. Leo almost came undone at this sight alone, becoming fast and frantic in his movements until he, too, reached his climax. He deftly removed his condom and, before collapsing on the bed beside Rosa, gave one final salute in the vague direction of Marx's ghost.

"Thank you, comrade," he whispered. "You are with me always." With that, the pair fell asleep nestled in each other's arm, and when they awoke the next morning they sun was shining, all the snow in Russia has melted, and the people were free. All was well in the world.


End file.
